


On With the Show

by missbeizy



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, M/M, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 21:33:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2041047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://missbeizy.tumblr.com/post/92734784705/poly-fantasy-au-where-kurt-marries-someone-and">Historical-ish AU wherein Kurt and Elliott are married and traveling performers</a>.  They recruit Blaine to become their apprentice, and poly romance/sex ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On With the Show

The first time that Blaine meets Kurt and Elliott, he's ten years old and they are fifteen and eighteen respectively. 

They come through his village as members of a band of entertainers who ply their trade to those who have the leisure time to enjoy it for a modest fee. Blaine's parents don't quite approve of their free ways, and make a point of criticizing their outlandishly styled hair, clothes, and painted faces, especially Elliott, who has multiple piercings and tattoos. 

Despite this, most of the village turns up to see them, and Blaine...

Blaine thinks that they are the most interesting group of people that he has ever seen. 

As the son of a baker, his life isn't very exciting. He rises early, works until his knuckles swell and his body aches, and goes to bed late. His days are structured by baking schedules and customers and deliveries, not allowing for much variety or for him to think about what he would prefer to be doing with his life. Being allowed an hour at the end of the work day for two days in a row to go and watch the troupe perform is like being transported to another world, where fun can have nothing to do with duty, and where Blaine can watch with wide eyes as the men and women of the troupe dance and sing and juggle and swallow fire and tell stories and recite poems as if nothing else in the world is more important.

Kurt and Elliott are by far the brightest and best, in Blaine's opinion. They always seem to be performing together, even when they are in a larger group, playing off of one another, singing harmonies, or tossing juggling batons back and forth. 

Blaine learns a lot about them simply by eavesdropping by their wagon after the shows. He has never spoken to them, has never thought to dare, but in this way he learns their names and ages and what they like to drink and eat when they come through his village.

One evening he manages to stay out of sight but in range for almost a whole hour, lurking in the shadow of a water barrel outside of their makeshift camp on the edge of the village. They share a skin of wine, and Blaine can tell when the wine begins to affect them. They start singing—not for an audience, but for pleasure, and they dance, clasping hands and hugging in a much freer way. 

Kurt and Elliott sway on the fringes of the group. Blaine tries to maintain sight of them in the flickering firelight, despairing that they have chosen the opposite side of the circle to dance on. He leans out so far into the light to keep track of them that he's spotted by one of their group, a tall dark-haired woman who is too drunk to care that Blaine is a village kid.

"Hey hey hey," she cries, swinging the wine skin above her head. "We've got an admirer!"

The group converges on Blaine, who is so used to being told off by his parents for daydreaming or being in the wrong place at the wrong time that he thinks he's going to be punished.

He's too busy gawking at all of the beautiful men and women in their wonderful clothes and make-up and hair-dos to worry much, though, and oh—Elliott is ruffling his hair, and Kurt is dragging him by the hand closer to the fire. Someone begins playing a lute wildly, and before Blaine can even excuse himself, he's being integrated into a circle of linked hands, and dragged around and around the fire pit.

Someone offers him a swallow of wine, and all it takes is a few of these to make his brain go fuzzy. They giggle with him, but not at him, and he has never felt so happy in his life. He wants to stay with the troupe forever. He wants to sing and dance and earn applause. It's truly what he's always wanted, but never had the courage to admit. He hates the bakery. He hates that he doesn't have a say in his own life.

They don't let him drink more wine, but they do invite him to their party. They dress him in costumes and paint his face and use sticky goo to tease his curls back. 

Even though he doesn't get to have a conversation with Kurt or Elliott, he's always near them, listening to them talk and watching them move. They are beautiful. They are so beautiful—both apart and together—that it hurts Blaine, in ways that he does not understand. Everyone in the troupe acts and dresses the same, so what is it specifically about these two that make his tummy swoop and his chest ache?

He guesses that it could be the wine. In fact, he's sure it is, because before long he inhales too much wood smoke, and the smoke and the wine combine to make his stomach twist. He throws up beside a tent, feeling terrible mostly because he must seem like such a child to them.

He feels a hand on his back and stiffens—but it's just Elliott.

"Not so good coming back up, is it?" he asks, rather kindly.

Blaine rinses his mouth out with handfuls of water from the barrel beside him, smiling a wobbly smile. "Can I be honest? It was kind of awful going down, too."

Elliott laughs. "And so you should think. Come on, everyone's settling down. You can sit with us, if you want."

"I should probably get home," he says, staring up in awe at this tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed man with metal in his ears and nose and perfectly sculpted facial hair. 

"You've got bread in that bag, don't you?" Elliott asks, looking sheepish.

"Um. Yes. What does that have to do with—"

"A song for a loaf?" Elliott smiles. "We'd appreciate it."

Which is how Blaine ends up trading today's leftovers for a serenade, in which Kurt and Elliott harmonize beautifully. He sits on a log listening, and feels his blood rush through his veins and his body go limp with adoration, a longing swelling up in his chest so fiercely that he wants to shout it to the sky.

Kurt has no visible piercings but his hair is styled so high that Blaine has no idea how it stays that way, and his eyes are lined with black and his lips with pink. They're both dressed in worn but well-loved colorful cotton, and they've decorated their simple garb with metal and stone jewelry to make it into something more than it is. He loves it.

The rest of the group has gone to bed, and when they finish a third song and Blaine has given them all four of the loaves of bread that he'd had in his bag, they're leaning against each other, and Kurt's hand laces with Elliott's. Elliott smiles, and tilts his head at Blaine.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Blaine."

"I'm Elliott, and this is Kurt." 

He knows that, of course, but he doesn't say so.

Kurt sleepily waggles his free hand at Blaine, and fixes him with a smile that makes his neck flush hot. Elliott is a mix of traits, as everyone in the troupe is, but masculine-bulky and what Blaine expects of an average man in terms of shape and size (if you overlook his piercings, tattoos, clothing, and vibrant eyes, that is). But Kurt...Kurt is ethereal, other-worldly, somehow fey and strong at the same time, and so pretty that it's hard to look away from him.

Together, they are almost too much to take in.

"Look at that blush," Kurt says, playfully teasing. "Oh, he's adorable."

Blaine is too happy to be with them to care if they just think he's a cute kid. He would do anything to hold their attention.

"I love your shows," he says, his voice high and breaking. "Your costumes and your songs—I just love them, so much."

"Aw, well thank you," Elliott says, jostling his and Kurt's laced hands as he rocks with pleasure at the compliment. "Praise and bread are always welcome." He flutters his eyelashes, and Blaine's cheeks go even hotter.

They don't say much, but Blaine is just content to be near them. He only realizes that he's nodding off when Kurt reaches over to give his shoulder a shake.

"Hey," he says, "your parents are probably worried about you, huh?"

He's overstayed his welcome, in any case. He rubs his eyes and stands, grateful when Kurt's strong hand steadies him.

"Thanks for the songs," he says, on the edge of their camp. He wishes that they had more time, but tonight has been a dream for him, and he's grateful for the experience.

"Thanks for the bread," Elliott says, smiling.

The night is cool, and the wine long gone from his system. He takes a deep, cleansing breath of night air, smiling to himself as he walks away from the troupe's camp. He stops before completely losing sight of it, and turns to watch Kurt and Elliott clean up the fire pit area.

He's perfectly positioned to see, very clearly, when Elliott takes Kurt by his hips and tugs him into an embrace, and then into a kiss that is definitely not one that two friends would share.

Blaine stands there, his feet refusing to move, his eyes glued to the sight of Kurt leaning up on his toes to kiss Elliott harder, to twine his bare arms around Elliott's shoulders.

It isn't that Blaine hasn't heard of—it isn't that he doesn't _know_. But he's never thought about it before. He's never seen it, he's never—he's never—felt it the way that he's feeling it now, like a part of him is in them, and every step that he takes away from them makes the part of him that he's left with them reach for him, try to drag him back, to tell him that he should stay.

It's not something that anyone talks about. It's—something that people like these performers do, something outside of “normal” behavior, something passionate and dangerous that only they are willing to risk doing, as unpredictable and migratory as their lifestyles already are.

Blaine blushes and turns away when Elliott's hands grasp Kurt's backside and he walks them all the way to their tent, where they disappear together.

Blaine feels as if nothing else is quite real after that. The grass and dirt beneath his feet. Sneaking into his family's modest home and all the way through to his bedroom, where he crawls into bed fully clothed, as if the effort required to disrobe is something that he can't muster up right now.

At least, until three hours later when his mother begins shouting from down the hall. It's still dark, but it's time to wake up. He feels dreadful, and knows that she'll know he hadn't been where he should have been last night. But it had been worth it.

Later on, when he has a few minutes to himself, he jogs back to the outskirts of the village, and isn't surprised to see that the troupe has moved on. They only ever stay for a day or two, and it isn't as if he'd expect Kurt and Elliott to do something like find him to say goodbye.

He is more disappointed, though, when a group comes through three months later and is—not the same one. And again, three months after that, and three months after that. Blaine has no idea why Kurt and Elliott's group has moved on from this area, and it makes him sad, but he hardly has the time to mourn the loss of them. 

Day in, and day out, always the same: wake in the dark, bake, serve customers, make deliveries, over and over again. The new troupe of entertainers is just as talented as Kurt and Elliott's had been, but they lack something that Blaine can't put his finger on. He's never quite as excited to see them perform.

His parents tell him that this is a good thing, that he's just growing up and getting over that frivolous nonsense. Deep down, Blaine knows that they're wrong. He loves music and performing just as much as he ever has. In his free time, all he does is sing and choreograph. He closes his eyes and lets himself go, lets his body do what it likes, and every time he thinks of Kurt and Elliott, of their laughing, smiling faces, of their joined hands, of the way that they'd kissed in the firelight with complete abandon.

He knows perfectly well that he shares not only a love of music but also something much more personal with his two favorite performers. It isn't as if he can talk about it, though—his parents are already going on about him marrying his best friend Tina, about what a perfect match it would be (her family are farmers), and Blaine has to admit that he could imagine a worse fate. Tina is a wonderful person, and he loves her more than anyone in the village. But...

But.

His body yearns for something else, something that he doesn't even know how to identify in others much less have for his very own.

More than that, though, he feels trapped, and he just doesn't see any way out.

 

*

 

The second time that Blaine meets Kurt and Elliott, he is seventeen years old.

He's behind the counter of the bakery as usual, in between the evening rush and closing, when two men walk into the bakery. He's about to tell them that he's closed for the day, when he looks up to see two of the faces that he has been dreaming of for years. They're older, and taller, and even more beautiful, and they look—incredible. Gone are the rags of their youth, replaced by splendid players' costumes, expensive jewelry and gloriously done make-up.

"Oh," he says, dropping his arms to his sides. "Oh, my god." He begins to laugh breathlessly, and doesn't even hesitate when they reach over the counter for his hands. He offers one to each of them, and vibrates when the connection is made.

"He remembers!" Kurt says, pumping Blaine's hand up and down.

"Of course he does; we're fabulous," Elliott adds, repeating the same on his other hand.

"I thought I'd never see you again," Blaine replies, his jaw slack and his eyes wide.

"Fame and fortune did await," Kurt says.

"Well. Sort of," Elliott says.

"At least, we have a patron. And we're not doing half bad."

"You—that's wonderful!" Blaine says, drinking in their costumes with his eyes. "Is that why you aren't with the troupe anymore?"

"Our good master wanted a duo," Kurt says. "So here we are. Passing through."

Blaine can't stop staring. They had been beautiful teenagers, of course, but they're grown men now, and they fill the little bakery with a presence that they had only been affecting seven years ago. They've obviously earned it and own it now, in a brand new way. And Blaine...well, Blaine isn't a child anymore, either. He can feel their appraisal when they look back at him, the way that they glance at each other as if to say "well now, he's changed, too".

"One wonders if you can hold your wine a little better now than you did seven years ago, hm?" Kurt asks, jiggling the satchel that he's carrying.

"Oh," Blaine breathes. "I—I'm not quite done here, I—"

"After," Elliott says, smiling, and sliding his arm through the loop of Kurt's elbow. "Same place as before. Come and find us."

He really shouldn't. His time is even more limited now that he's an adult and running more of the business, but...

How could he refuse such an offer?

"I'll be there," he says, and goes warm all over at the excited looks on their faces. 

His parents are no less overbearing than they had been when he was a child, but now he has the freedom to come and go after work as he pleases. Not that this has led to much more than evenings playing cards and gossiping with Tina—but at least he can change into his nicer clothes and slip out of the house without being asked where he's going or when he'll be back.

When he arrives at Kurt and Elliott's camp, he finds that his friends have shrugged out of their jackets and already polished off half a skin of wine on their own. They're flushed and friendly, and don't hesitate to circle him with their arms when he arrives. It's almost too much, having them near and affectionate after all this time. He never thought that he'd see them again.

And...well. Their touch feels very different now than it had when he was ten years old. He pulls away from them red-faced and beginning to sweat, and every part of him wants to immediately reach out for them again. Instead, he offers them a satchel full of sandwiches, and they let out a whoop and draw him closer to their fire.

"Good man," Kurt says with a wink, kissing his cheek.

He blushes and stammers, "Oh, it's nothing." His jaw tingles where Kurt's lips had brushed. His whole body feels lit up by the contact.

Elliott watches them, smiling, and then begins passing around the food. "So. Your bakery?"

"My parents'," Blaine says, taking a bite of his sandwich. "I turn eighteen soon, so I guess—it will be mine, too."

"That doesn't sound like much of an endorsement," Kurt says.

Blaine smiles, and shrugs. "It's a package deal with me agreeing to marry the girl who's my best friend, and—neither of us really want to."

"Ouch," Elliott says. "Let me guess: there's another." He puts a dramatic hand to his forehead.

Blaine laughs, picking at his sandwich with downcast eyes. "Um. You—you could say that."

Does wanting to spend every spare moment of his time with two people who he hardly knows and has only met twice count as "another"?

"Well, that is tragic, indeed," Kurt says, just as dramatically, and this seems to be some kind of a cue, because Elliott whips out a wooden flute and begins to play, and Kurt begins to sing a song about lost love.

They pass the wine skin around until it's empty, Blaine's head is fuzzy, and they have drawn him into the song. It feels lovely to be drunk and singing, even though Blaine has little practical experience with either, and by the end of it he's tucked in between them on a log, his head on Kurt's shoulder and Elliott's on his.

He wonders why being close to these men has never felt awkward or strange, when the closest that he has come to intimacy with another person had been an attempt to kiss Tina when they decided to see if there was anything between them. It had ended in wet mouths and a squirmy feeling in his belly that had felt like indigestion, and she'd looked at him and he'd looked at her and they'd laughed, shaking their heads, fully aware that neither was interested in the other.

"You have a beautiful voice," Kurt says, nudging his head against Blaine's.

"It's nothing like yours."

"It could be much better."

Blaine blinks. The wine is making him slow, and the body heat bracketing him on both sides is certainly distracting. "In another life, maybe."

"Why not this one?" Elliott asks, adjusting his cheek on Blaine's shoulder.

"Oh," Blaine says, staring up at the night sky. "There's the bakery. There's—my parents."

"Is that your dream?" Kurt asks.

"No," Blaine says, laughing. "God, not even close."

"Then what is?" Elliott asks.

Blaine's heart slams against the inside of his chest. He can't say everything that he really wants to say, because he knows that some of the things he wants are silly. But he wants to answer, he wants to give them a piece of himself, so he thinks about it.

"To run away," he says, finally, tearing his gaze away from the heavens and looking at them both in turn. "To live the life that you live."

"Oh, he's good," Elliott says to Kurt, grinning.

"He's gorgeous," Kurt replies, his eyes never leaving Blaine. "With a face like that, a voice and a presence like that—so much potential."

"Oh, um," Blaine stammers, looking down at his hands. "Oh, I don't know about that."

He's overwhelmed by the intensity of their focus. It's like being caught between two equally powerful if very different predators, only...Blaine sort of wants to be their prey, so he isn't sure if the metaphor is accurate.

"We haven't been entirely honest with you, Blaine," Elliott says. "We're not just passing through. We're not even here to perform."

Kurt's hand lands on Blaine's leg, and Blaine tries not to let his surprise show. "As we said, we have a patron now, and we're booked solid for the season already. We're so busy, and since it's just the two of us we're kind of—overextended."

Elliott nudges his shoulder. "So. We're in the market for an apprentice."

"I don't think you'll find one here," Blaine says. He can't imagine a less artistically-inclined village.

"Okay, we're just going to let that one sink in for a second," Elliott drawls, putting an arm around Blaine's shoulders.

Blaine blinks. And then jolts in his seat. "No. Oh, no, I—oh, no, please don't ask me that, not when I can't say yes!"

"Why can't you?" Kurt whines, clutching his arm. Those wide blue-green eyes and that beautiful pink mouth spreading in despair make Blaine want to give in immediately. "You're miserable here. That much is obvious. And you deserve more than a business you don't want, and a wife you can't love—"

"How do you know that I'm...?"

Kurt's fingers trace shapes on his kneecap. "Oh, honey. We have that in common, too. It's okay."

Blaine's palms go damp. He clears his throat. "I—"

Elliott holds up his wrist, and Kurt does the same—they're wearing matching leather wristbands, and they unbuckle them to show Blaine that stitched on the inside are their initials. 

"We may not be able to marry, but we have our own customs."

"Oh," Blaine breathes, his stomach clenching and releasing. "Oh, you're—married?"

"For quite a few years now," Kurt says, giving Elliott a fond glance over Blaine's head. The affection between them has always been obvious, but Blaine is surprised to see how mature it has become in the last seven years.

"But you know," Elliott says, "we've never been able to forget our little baker boy. As soon as we were given some travel money, we wanted to come back here and see if you might be interested. You're perfect for the job. Just the right age now, passionate about performance, and looking for something new. The work isn't glamorous, but we'd have time to train you up in between shows."

Blaine can't quite wrap his head around the offer. It doesn't feel real, not yet.

He untangles himself from them and stands, needing space and air. They watch him circle the fire pit. He watches them gravitate toward each other, their hands and legs and sides touching to fill the space that he's left behind.

They're husbands. They're husbands, and that doesn't really change anything, except—except Blaine doesn't know how traveling with them—basically living with them—will affect him in the long run. They're obviously very happy together. What if being near them were to only make him feel lonely and excluded?

But the truth is, if Blaine stays, he and Tina will be trapped in a marriage that neither of them wants before the end of the year, and once Blaine's parents give him the bakery, it will be his to manage, and they'll want grandchildren immediately, of course, and he can't imagine—oh, god, he wouldn't even be able to.

He would have tried. He would have done as they told him, simply because he has convinced himself that he has no other options. But now he does, and if he doesn't take this opportunity, he may never see its like again.

"If I go with you," he says, hardly able to believe the words coming out of his own mouth, "this will be a proper apprenticeship, yes? I—I would take it very seriously, so I need to know that you would, too. You and your patron."

"Of course," Elliott says. "We wouldn't have come all this way to ask you if we weren't serious."

Blaine isn't quite sure what makes him consider abandoning almost eighteen years of an ordered, predictable life after one evening of conversation. But standing there looking at these two brilliant men, it's as if the decision has already been made for him. He knows without needing to justify the knowledge that his future lies with them. Saying no to them now would only lead to a life of misery and regret, and Blaine is so very tired of regretting each and every day.

"I—I need to write a note, at least. And say goodbye to Tina. And pack." 

He blinks. He's just agreed to this madness.

Kurt and Elliott jump up and grab his hands and tug him into a hug, squashing him in between them. "I knew it!"

"He always does," Elliott says, grinning. "We'll pack the wagon and get the horses ready to go. Meet you back here in an hour?"

He clings to their hands, and nods once before rushing off in the direction of the village lights.

The note to his parents is easy—he's been dreaming of leaving this dreary village for as long as he can remember, and no matter how hard he's tried, his parents have never understood or listened to him. He's old enough now to easily imagine a life without them. Tina, however, is difficult to say goodbye to. She has a good relationship with her family, and even when he suggests that she come with them (he's sure that they would take Tina, too, as long as she offered to pay her way), she tearfully refuses.

"Will you be okay?" he asks.

She rolls her eyes and smiles at him through her tears. "I love you, Blaine, but—at least now I'll be free to court someone who sees me as more than just a friend. It won't be so bad. But I'll miss you."

He uses every remaining minute of his hour to be with her, and by the time that he returns, Kurt and Elliott are already sitting with reins in their hands, ready to leave. He has everything that he could carry from his bedroom back home in two sacks on his back, and he tosses them into the back of the wagon and climbs up to sit with them.

"I worried that you were having second thoughts," Kurt says, sliding an arm around his waist. Blaine doesn't even hesitate to cuddle close, putting his arm around Kurt's middle and holding on.

Elliott watches them with bright eyes. "Alright, boys. We've got a hundred miles to our next show. Let's put this dusty little farm town behind us."

"With pleasure," Blaine says, curling deeper into Kurt's embrace.

 

*

 

The problem isn't the work. 

Yes, it's tedious. Blaine spends most of his time fetching and carrying and getting Kurt and Elliott in and out of their costumes (which makes him blush but is not nearly as fun as it sounds). He learns how to style hair and apply stage makeup. He handles purchasing their lodging and food with their master's money. He makes sure that their venues are ready for them. He sometimes even helps seat people and control crowds at their shows.

Once or twice a week, they give him singing, instrument, and acting lessons. He lives for these hours, absorbing their instruction like a sponge taking on water. He's talented. He knows that. And they make him better, and he doesn't regret his choice to come with them for a second.

The problem is that his feelings for them are so far from professional that it is truly pathetic.

At first, he thinks that it's just Elliott. Elliott is the one who gives him vocal lessons, to teach him how to breathe and stand and project, how to hone the instrument of his voice—which he'd had no idea could even be done—until he has better control of it. Elliott is the one who stands behind him, his arms around him, holding his diaphragm as he counts his breath and sings scales.

Sometimes they stay that way singing harmonies, Elliott hovering a good two to three inches above him, wide and strong and so good at what he does, somehow managing to be funny even when he's teaching a lesson, making Blaine laugh through his mistakes. He's properly critical, but no matter how harsh the lesson he manages to deliver it in a way that brings Blaine's guard down rather than up. He's easy to like. He's handsome. 

But then Blaine thinks that it might be Kurt, and on an even more intense scale. Kurt is a bit clumsy, but is very good at combining theatricality and props and choreography. He has a unique spirit and such a singular view of the world—he teaches Blaine how to let his inner light shine, how to play to dialogue and poetry in a way that showcases his own talents and skills. He's caring and silly and playful, and so beautiful that it almost hurts to look at him. There's something elusive about him as well, an evasive quality that Elliott doesn't have, as if he's always hoarding a precious secret or two, knowledge that one inevitably wants to share but is denied in the most teasing of ways. He has layers and depth, and after just a few short months of being his apprentice, Blaine is smitten. 

Once Kurt relaxes around him, they're always touching. Kurt is very tactile, and loves to be held and tucked up against either Elliott or Blaine or both, in the most innocent and earnest of ways. Blaine loves holding him, loves taking care of him, bringing him his meals and seeing to his wardrobe and making him laugh. 

He loves being their apprentice, and the shows are going so well. He only wishes that he could handle his desires half as well as he does their performances.

 

*

 

During the last half of the season, money becomes an issue. 

They're far from their master's home and waiting on the arrival of additional funds, and on one stop Blaine only has enough money to book them a single, small room. Normally, they need two rooms just to fit all of their props and wardrobes and the three of them—Blaine is happy to sleep with their kit, because he likes to keep an eye on it, and, well, Kurt and Elliott are husbands; they appreciate the privacy, he's sure.

And then his mind wanders off in that direction, and that's never a productive train of thought. He's seen them in every state of undress and he's seen them together, but he's never, ever seen them—like that. They are actually rather reserved in public, for obvious reasons, and Blaine is too polite to eavesdrop when they're bunked down for the night, even though he feels a tug in his muscles every time that they go off to sleep together. It's the same tug that he'd felt when he was ten and said goodbye to them, and the same tug that he'd felt the night that they'd asked him to be their apprentice—as if he should be with them, as if he should follow.

It's like torture, some nights, not because of anything that they do, but just because of that pull.

He feels guilty. There have been times when he's been with either of them alone, and wanted—wanted so very much to lean into those hands, to touch his mouth to theirs, and—god, they're happy together. They're happy together and who is he to interfere, even if they seem to enjoy his flustered reactions to their constant and friendly flirtations?

"There's hardly enough room for two," Kurt grouses.

"We'll need to travel out of our way after this, if it brings us closer to a postmaster. We need that gold," Elliott says. "Blaine, use the wine money to buy extra blankets. I'll sleep on the floor."

"Don't be ridiculous," he says. "I'll take the floor."

They argue with him, but he won't budge—he is honor-bound as their apprentice to accept the short end of the stick. Of course, after the show, he can't help but wonder what it's going to be like, to be so close and yet so far away from them. The post-performance adrenaline rush always leaves them in a giddy state.

Blaine rushes to change into his nightshirt before they arrive from their baths. He's settled by the time that they close the door behind them. He can smell their soap and lotion, and hear them talk softly—they must think that he's already asleep.

"Mm, come here," Kurt says. Blaine hears the bed squeak as they climb onto it.

"I'm exhausted, and we aren't alone," Elliott says, a playful laugh at the back of his throat.

The same conversation occurs at more or less every stop that month, and as their money dwindles Blaine realizes that they may be stuck in close quarters for some time. He appreciates their restraint on his behalf, but he also feels as if he's interrupting their usual routine, and it's making him uncomfortable.

One evening Kurt and Elliott stay downstairs to drink on a very enthusiastic supporter's money, and Blaine uses the free time to enjoy a private bath and grooming routine. He's exhausted, and falls asleep the moment that he curls up in his little blanket nest. He wakes up only when they come in, and only because they're giggling and drunk and the door hits the far wall by accident.

They continue to laugh and talk and roll around the bed, and as Blaine is practically sleeping against the footboard, he feels it every time that they move. 

Elliott tickles Kurt, and stops only when they begin to kiss. Blaine can hear the wet smacks and the throaty breathing and their limbs settling onto the mattress.

He flushes hot, over his cheeks and down the back of his neck, and tries to fall back to sleep.

It doesn't work.

They don't stop at kissing. He isn't sure what they do, but he can hear the rustle of clothing and the acceleration of their breathing. In the dark and otherwise silent room, there isn't anything to do but listen to the rhythmic shifting of hands and lips. 

And then Kurt moans, so soft and low that Blaine thinks he might have imagined it.

He feels heat flash down his body. Despite his best efforts, his cock is pulsing, more in response to the images that he's conjuring in his head than because of anything that they are doing.

"I can't," Kurt whimpers, and Elliott hushes him with a kiss.

"Come on," Elliott whispers, and Blaine can hear skin on skin.

They're trying so very hard to stay quiet, and Blaine is trying equally hard to ignore his cock tenting his nightshirt. He bites his lip to suppress the huff of breath in and out of his lungs, and grips the blankets beneath him to stop from touching himself.

Kurt makes the softest, most high-pitched little sob when he comes—Blaine hears it, and then hears it muffled as Kurt buries himself either against the bed or Elliott. He feels the bed move beneath their bodies

His cock leaks, achingly hard, and he turns his face into his pillow and bites down on it. 

God, he wants—he _wants_.

"Let me," Kurt says, and Blaine hears him shift down the bed.

"Oh, god, love," Elliott moans, and there's—a wet, repetitive noise, the most contained, polite slurping, and even though Blaine is a virgin, he knows exactly what they're doing. 

The bed squeaks with every bob of Kurt's mouth around Elliott's cock, and the noises that Elliott makes are less reserved—they're lower, and gruffer, and full of endearments—and both these noises and their frantic breathing increase and increase until Blaine thinks that he might come just from listening them.

He begins rutting up against his nightshirt, torturing himself with the careful thrusts as his pre-come bleeds through the fabric, outlining the shape of his cockhead against the material. He's almost hyperventilating in an attempt to not make any noise.

Elliott comes with a grunt and a groan, and when Kurt pulls off, Blaine can hear the wet, can hear him swallow and laugh and lick and lick and lick, and he can't take any more. He reaches down, grasps his cock through his nightshirt and jerks it frantically. It only takes a few pulls and he's coming beneath the fabric, biting down on the inside of his forearm to muffle the noise that he makes as the orgasm snaps through his body. He comes, and comes, and comes, and it's so good that he could weep.

Kurt gets up to fetch a cloth to clean them up with, and after that's done he peaks over the edge of the bed briefly.

"We didn't wake him, did we?" Elliott asks, in a whisper.

"No, he's asleep."

Blaine isn't sure what to feel, but mostly he's just pleasantly drained—he falls asleep without hearing the rest of their conversation.

 

*

 

"So we were thinking," Kurt says, adjusting Blaine's collar. "There's this skit that we've been wanting to work into the second act that requires a third actor. It's just—a silly thing, a woman caught between two lovers, some verses about the merits of either man and her progress as she tries to choose between them. It's short but it's fun—energetic, comedic."

"Should I ask around?" Blaine asks, looking down as Kurt pins the cloth that Blaine is modeling for him.

He smiles. "I was asking you, silly. If you're okay with dressing in drag, of course."

This is a common thing for them, so that's not an issue.

"Oh," Blaine says, lighting up. "Do you think I'm ready?"

"I think you're more than ready," Kurt says, crouching to adjust a seam. "Okay. This is good. Just let me—get it off, don't move."

Once the costume is safely removed, Blaine asks, "How long do we have to get it ready?"

"A week, if that's alright."

He nods. He watches Kurt pack up the sewing kit, unable to tear his eyes away from the movement of those capable fingers. He's tried very hard not to think about the intimacy that he has been drawn into this week, to not connect the nighttime pants and moans and quiet ruffling of linens with the two men who have so graciously taken him under their wings, but—it's difficult not to. He keeps staring at Kurt's mouth and thinking about the wet, hollow sucking, staring at Kurt's hands and imagining what they'd feel like on his own body. He's seen Kurt flushed and exuberant, and he imagines that same face, red-cheeked and sweaty, above him, or beneath him, or—anywhere that Kurt would like to be.

"We'll have to flirt," Kurt says.

Oh, god, he's been talking, and Blaine has been standing there thinking about having sex with him.

"S-sorry?"

"And dance. Together. I'm the younger, prettier lover, of course," Kurt says, batting his eyelashes.

He laughs. "Oh. Oh, of course."

Kurt gives him a look, and then descends on him, sweeping him up by his waist into a spin. "You'll have to be convincing. The audience must think that you are hopelessly in love, and so very torn between us."

Blaine yelps, and clutches Kurt's shoulders. "I can do that."

"Can you?" Kurt asks, pulling him close, and pressing his face into the curve of Blaine's neck, dragging them around the room in dizzying circles before spinning him out at arm's length and drawing him back in again.

Blaine gives as good as he gets, dipping and twirling Kurt around the room. He takes the lead the moment that Kurt gives in to his aggression, gripping Kurt's lower back in one hand and Kurt's hand in the other.

"Oh, you have been practicing," Kurt says, allowing himself to look impressed.

"I've had good teachers."

"Flatterer."

"Truth."

Kurt slides one hand into the hair at the back of his head and presses their cheeks together, breathing heavy and hot over his temple. "Pretty, too."

"Now who's flattering?"

Kurt grins. "Truth."

Blaine laughs. "Alright. You have me."

Kurt sets his feet to halt their movement, and their bodies collide. They're already glued together at the face and hips, but now their arms and hands are tangled and their chests are touching, and Kurt's mouth is against his ear.

"I do, don't I?" he whispers, dragging his thumb over the back of Blaine's hand and carding his fingers through Blaine's thick curls at the same time.

"D-do?"

"Have you."

"I—"

"Shh," Kurt says, twisting his fingers in Blaine's hair.

When he pulls back, they're nose to nose, and oh—Kurt's eyes are wide, his pupils are blown, and his cheeks bright red. And Blaine did that. Blaine put that look on his face.

Blaine's belly sinks. 

What is he doing? Kurt is _married_.

"I—I should go," he blurts, pulling away.

"Blaine—"

"No, I should—I really should." He spares Kurt a single, apologetic glance before he flees.

 

*

That night, Blaine rolls onto his stomach, puts the blanket over his head, and tries not to listen.

But they aren't being quiet. They are not even remotely being quiet, and it's not just hands and mouths this time, it's—

"Oh, god, fuck me," Kurt whimpers, as the bed rocks rhythmically against Blaine's back, curled up as he is on the floor at its foot.

He had thought it was safe. They had all fallen asleep after a long day of travel, but at some point during the night Kurt and Elliott must have woken up in a very particular mood, because it had happened so fast, one moment quiet and the next clothing being rucked up and the snick of a jar of lotion opening up and Elliott's big, strong body maneuvering Kurt onto his hands and knees, and then—this. For almost an hour now, the creak of the bed and the slap of their bodies.

Blaine can hear it. He can hear Elliott's cock sliding in and out of Kurt, can hear every moist hollow suckle as Kurt's ass takes it, and the noises that Kurt makes are desperate and unashamed.

He gives up so fast that it's almost comical. Almost as soon as it begins, his hand is beneath his pants and on his cock, and he's stroking himself from root to tip slowly, timing every ascending knot of tension with their progress. He shouldn't. He really, really shouldn't, but he wants it so badly, he wants—he wants _them_ so badly, and this at least is not a violation of the respect that he has for their relationship. It's the lesser of two evils.

He spreads his legs, fondles his balls with his free hand, and when they just keep going, when Elliott flips Kurt onto his back and slides right back into him, Blaine reaches back and pushes a spit-slick finger into his own ass, pretending that it's Elliott, pretending that those wide shoulders and that long torso and those beautiful blue eyes are above him, pretending that he's on his knees and split in half around Elliott's cock.

He bites down on his pillow to stop any unconscious noise making and just lets go, sinks into the noise of their fucking and the sway of the bed that's bumping into him with every rock.

"Slow down for me," Elliott says, easing back. "Mm, let me see."

"Put it back in," Kurt moans. "Want it. Too empty." Blaine hears a kiss, and then Kurt whines, long and broken. "F-fuck me, fuck me."

"Love you like this," Elliott croons, beginning again. Blaine listens to every careful, deep thrust, and pushes a second finger inside of himself. He's so close. It's not enough, but his hand is flying around his cock and he's so close. That voice—god, both of their voices—is curling around him, driving him on. "Love you, god, love you, going to—"

Blaine comes when Elliott does, the space behind his eyelids going white as he arches his back into his own inadequate fingers and messes the blanket beneath him spectacularly.

He collapses when it's over, his skin buzzing and his heart pounding, and listens to them kiss and murmur things that he can't quite make out. His body aches for that, for the intimacy that follows, for how easy it is between them. It isn't that he wants either of them for himself—it's never been that, though he has feelings that are specific to each of them individually. It's that he wishes he were on that bed with them, between them, beside them.

He breathes shallowly, trying to be silent as his ears ring and his body throbs.

 

*

 

"You look gorgeous," Elliott says, putting Blaine at arm's length. "No, seriously, we need to consider a wardrobe overhaul."

Blaine laughs. He's standing there in an ankle-length skirt, a blouse, and a corset, his hair oiled into ringlets, and he feels—well, he actually feels kind of wonderful.

"Now if I could just get you to let me put some metal in those pretty ears," Elliott says.

"Oh, no you don't. I'm not ready for that!"

"I'm this close to convincing Kurt to get inked, you just wait."

They share a script page, and run through the scene a few times. Blaine has the dialogue and the notes down. He's ready, but Elliott had wanted to see him in full costume, so here they are.

"You really should pick me, you know," Elliott says, playing with Blaine's corset laces. "Older, wiser—Kurt's character is so young and flippant. I'm clearly the better choice." He fingers a lace from its tip to the corset body, and slides one big hand around Blaine's waist to his lower back, pulling him in. "More experienced—"

Blaine laughs, ducking his face. "You both present a very compelling argument."

Elliott, towering above him, bends low and kisses the tip of his nose, surprising him. "Mm, really?"

He blushes. "I guess I'll just have to let you fight over me, hm?"

"You're loving this, aren't you? Finally getting a chance to strut your stuff."

"Of course," he says, stepping back to do a spin and twirl his skirt playfully. "Who knows. Maybe I'll have an apprentice of my own one day."

Elliott tilts his head to watch Blaine show off, and then sits on the chair behind him. "You never know." His eyes gently drift down Blaine's body, and Blaine clasps the cotton between his fingers, hikes the skirt a little higher around his calves, and walks over to Elliott. Elliott's eyes go a darker shade of blue when he approaches, the skirt pinched between his fingers. 

"C'mere," he says, tugging Blaine to sit on his thighs. "Going my way, beautiful?" 

"Are we rehearsing, then?" Blaine asks, spreading his legs to scoot farther into Elliott's lap. He shouldn't, but the costume is making him feel reckless, and when he does that, the pink on Elliott's cheeks makes him feel even more bold. "I'm just so confused. I love you both so much—how could I ever choose?" he asks, using his character's voice.

Elliott's hands—they're so wide that they cover most of his lower back—sink into the fluff of skirt bunched above his ass and pull Blaine all the way into his lap. "Oh, darlin'. Let me convince you."

They've rehearsed the kissing before (in all combinations), but—that had been acting. It never feels real when they're acting, but this—this is not quite that. When Elliott kisses him now, it feels like them, warm and sudden and popping, like water drizzled across sizzling oil.

He's wearing a skirt and he's spread over Elliott's lap and his back is bowed over Elliott's hands and oh, that's—a tongue. He makes a soft noise and tilts his head and parts his lips. Elliott moans when he's granted entrance, and brings one hand up to cup the back of Blaine's head. 

The kiss comes to a grinding halt when Blaine realizes that he's getting hard against his underskirt, and that it isn't going to take much for Elliott to notice, considering that the skirt doesn't have much weight to it.

This is not rehearsing anymore, at least not for Blaine. He pulls back with a reluctant whine. His mouth is swollen and Elliott follows him into retreat with a noise, clearly wanting more. 

But they can't. Oh, god, they _can't_.

"I—I think we'll do just fine," he says, his voice high and breathy. "Um. Just—fine."

 

*

 

On stage, it's easy. It's the easiest thing that Blaine has ever done, in fact. He becomes his character, and Kurt and Elliott become theirs, and the outpouring of affection and amusement from the crowd is better than any wine that Blaine has ever tasted. If he had ever doubted before that he was meant to be on the stage, he never will again.

By the end of the first week it feels as if this has been his life since they began, the rush of performing, the applause, the costumes, the greasepaint and the sweat. They're still stuck to one room but suddenly that room doesn't feel small anymore, not when they stumble in from their baths together, laughing and talking about their performance.

One night, they stay up together, sitting with their legs folded and their meager supper between them, a little drunk and talking about their characters.

"I get her," Blaine says. "I really do. But I just—I disagree, I think. I don't understand why she's so confused."

"Really," Kurt says. "And why is that?"

"Well," Blaine says, sipping his wine to keep the buzz going. "Why does she feel that she has to choose? Both of her lovers are perfect, in very different ways, and they aren't—they aren't jealous or possessive. They seem almost amused by her plight, as if they would be content no matter which of them she chose. Oh, sure, they posture and tease, but their hearts aren't in it. The skit is all her comparing them, not them pressuring her."

Elliott smiles at Blaine, and then gives Kurt a look. Kurt smirks, and hides it in his cup.

"Is that the wine talking, sweet boy?" Kurt asks, tweaking one of Blaine's curls.

"Not fair," Blaine says, pouting. "Not fair!" He flops dramatically between them. 

The bed is barely wide enough for two, but Blaine shifts onto his side to take up less space. They are never far—Kurt is playing with the ruffle on his blouse's sleeve, and Elliott is toying with the laces of the corset that he's wearing. It feels nice, to just lie there and have them so close but not too close, not close enough to make the guilt rise, to make him feel too much.

They lie down on either side of him when the wine is gone, lacing their hands over his chest. Between them, he feels a sleepy peace settle, a content stillness that he has never quite managed to feel around them before. 

Kurt slides one leg over his, and he shifts even farther onto his side, until Kurt is snug up behind him and he's all but swallowed up by Elliott's embrace on the other side.

"Mm," Elliott hums, and the noise vibrates against Blaine's scalp. Kurt's nose digs into the back of Blaine's neck.

"Should—get undressed, and sleep," Blaine murmurs, warm and melting between them.

"I like that first idea," Kurt says.

" _Kurt_ ," Blaine breathes.

Elliott laughs. "Okay, children. Sleep."

 

*

 

On the road, they sleep in the back of the wagon. In the towns, now able to receive the money that they have been waiting for, they go back to two rooms. Neither arrangement allows Blaine to get between Kurt and Elliott again, and even though he's busier now than he ever was before (performing regularly as well as still doing all of the apprentice work), he struggles with the loss. He's so lonely, physically away from them—for just a short while he'd had a taste of what being with them might feel like, and it's difficult to go back to ending his nights alone.

Sometimes, if the inn is quiet and Blaine's heart doesn't pound quite so loudly, he can hear them through the thin wall separating their rooms. Laughter and chatter and movement. If their bed is against the adjoining wall, sometimes he can even hear them having sex, heavy breathing and desperate noises and the headboard tapping the wall. Alone in his own room, he has the freedom to cup and squeeze his cock, to fuck himself with his fingers in time with their rhythm, until he's coming with a choked off gasp, timing his orgasms with either of theirs.

Elliott is even more vocal than Kurt, and the first time that Blaine overhears Kurt fucking him, it takes all of Blaine's restraint to make it last, to not gush like a boy at the first, "Give me that big cock, oh, fuck, Kurt, yes, baby, yes."

He lies there in a puddle of sweat when it's over, four fingers sliding free of his stretched ass, and rolls over onto a dry spot to gasp and sprawl as he listens to them kiss through the paper thin wall. He isn't sure what follows, but he hears Kurt come not long after, and his cock throbs and dribbles at the sound.

He tries to find relief elsewhere. He really does. There is no shortage of boys and men willing to flirt and go to bed with him, but the problem is that he doesn't feel anything for them. There's simply no desire on his part, and he can't imagine having sex for the first time just in an attempt to take the edge off of his desire for other people.

He loves Kurt and Elliott. He _loves_ them. 

He doesn't want anyone else. But they have each other.

 

*

 

After a string of successful shows—and enjoying the luxury of steady money again—they take a week off and go to the countryside, rent a small cabin from a farmer and do nothing but eat fattening food and laze around, swimming in a nearby lake and taking a lot of naps. It's a pleasant respite, and there's more than enough room out here for the three of them to spread out and enjoy rare privacy. 

More than once, Blaine walks in on Kurt and Elliott in intimate positions—he isn't used to the freedom that time off affords, and he forgets that they don't often get to just be husbands together when they're in town. It must be lovely for them to be out in the country, able to hold hands and embrace and kiss without fear of discovery or judgment.

So even though it makes him sad, he leaves them alone. He mends their costumes and runs scales and exercises and sees to the horses. He writes to Tina. He hasn't told her about the dreadful emotional situation that he's gotten himself into—what would he say? _I'm in love with two men and I want them both_? How ridiculous. How selfish. She'd laugh and say that she wished she had his problems.

After a few days, Kurt finds Blaine alone by the lake.

"Everything alright?" he asks. 

He's wearing a purple shirt and a pair of brown pants that are so tight Blaine has no idea how he'd managed to get into them. Out here in the wind and sun, he looks so beautifully carefree. Blaine wants to run fingers through Kurt's hair and taste his sweet mouth.

"Um, sure. Why do you ask?"

"You've been kind of distant. Not a fan of wide open spaces?"

He smiles. "It's not that. It's nice out here. It's a refreshing change."

Kurt nudges their shoulders together. "So what is it?"

Blaine looks at Kurt, and exhales slowly. He wants to confess. He feels guilty. The longer that his feelings last and the bigger they grow, the more he feels that even as hidden as they are, they are still somehow an insult to Kurt and Elliott. It would be simple if he just wanted their bodies—if it were just sex. But it's not. At least, he doesn't think that it is. Is he confusing sexual attraction and love? He's never had sex, and he's never been in love, so how can he really know?

He reaches out and touches Kurt's cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, and traces the shape all the way to the softest part of his cheek. "I'm so lucky," he says. "So lucky that you two saw something in me, and came back for me. I don't think I've ever thanked you properly."

"You thank us every day by just sticking with us. We'd be lost without you, and we're more of a success now because of you, too."

Kurt's face is so open, so earnest. Blaine despairs. He runs his fingertips along Kurt's jaw to his chin, where he cups the smart little upturn of it. Before he can think about it, he leans in and presses their lips together. He kisses Kurt almost politely, and then pulls back. He's so numb from taking the risk that he can't even enjoy the tingles that spring up in the wake of it.

Kurt's eyes are wide. "Blaine?"

"I'm sorry," he says.

Kurt tilts his head. "Elliott's cooking. Come have dinner. You don't have to disappear. We miss you."

Blaine wants to say so many things, but all he can manage is, "Okay."

 

*

On their last night in the country, Blaine finds himself standing frozen in the doorway of the barn that they've been doing their relaxing in. Kurt and Elliott are one tangled shape in the light of a single lamp, shut to keep the flame from jumping, Elliott on top of Kurt, between Kurt's legs, thrusting slowly and steadily into his body.

Blaine shouldn't linger, but he can't take his eyes off of them.

Elliott is covering Kurt with his body, curled over him like a lid atop its pot, holding his shoulders and neck up off the floor tenderly, kissing his hair as his legs lock around Elliott's waist at the knee. Kurt's eyes are shut and his face is bright red, his fingers tangled in Elliott's wild color-streaked hair. He kisses Elliott anywhere that he can reach—his piercings, his cheeks, his jaw, his lips, his sweaty shoulders. They're lost in each other, and their bodies are so beautiful in the lamplight that Blaine's fingers twitch with the urge to touch them.

Kurt lifts his legs up and away, bending them at the knee and back until his kneecaps almost touch his ears. He opens himself for Elliott, who inches up on his knees and pushes home, deep and hard, making Kurt cry out and fling one arm to the hay-strewn floor to steel himself against the movement.

"Harder," he whimpers, his feet waggling in the air as Elliott fucks him.

Elliott drags his body off of the floor, and Blaine watches it bend in the dim light, milk-pale over the drape of Elliott's darker forearm. Kurt falls forward into Elliott's lap, his naked back strewn with scraps of hay, wrapping his legs around Elliott's waist and sitting back down onto him. His body shakes as Elliott fucks up into him, making him cry out.

"Oh," Kurt moans, bouncing softly, "oh, oh, yes, yes—"

"Want to come? Come for me?" 

Kurt chooses that exact moment to open his eyes. Blaine realizes only too late that their shift in position has put Kurt in perfect eye line with the door of the barn. He's there, in plain sight, and Kurt sees him. Kurt's eyes flicker and then go wide, and it coincides perfectly with Elliott's next thrust—Kurt moans, his head tilting back, but his eyes never leave Blaine's face. 

Blaine can't feel anything but the pounding of his heart in his ears.

There's nothing on Kurt's face but pleasure—nothing to indicate that he's angry or upset. He stares into Blaine's eyes as he comes in Elliott's hand, and then his own eyes flutter shut as his body convulses, his arms and legs twitching and clasping tighter around Elliott's body.

Blaine hurries to leave, striding briskly until the meager light in the barn is just a tiny glow.

He can't even imagine touching himself now, though his cock is hard in his pants, and with every step he takes away from the barn, it deflates. 

He can't seem to stop inserting himself into these situations, can't seem to stop _wanting_ to be in them, and—god, should he just leave them? Should he go off on his own?

 

*

 

It's simpler to avoid that question once they get back to their performance schedule. 

Blaine shares three skits with them, now, and spends almost as much time preparing and performing as they do. One of these skits has them dressed in fairly revealing leather costumes, and Blaine is glad that he's performing as much as he is, because he doesn't have time to think about it, or stare at Kurt and Elliott wearing leather pants and what amounts to a rag around their necks, their chests painted and their hair wild. 

After the show, the young girl who's helping them with their costumes tonight stays with them right up until bedtime—they tend to need extra help now that Blaine is performing, as well. Blaine goes off to his own room, which is piled high with costumes and open makeup kits, washes the paint from his face, and crawls into bed feeling disconnected and strange.

Making the subtle shift from apprentice to journeyman has been strange, and he's no closer to sorting his feelings for Kurt and Elliott than he had been six months ago.

He's drifting into sleep when he hears a knock on his door.

"Who is it?" he asks.

"It's Elliott."

 _Well, that's odd_ , Blaine thinks.

"Come in."

He's carrying a shuttered lamp, and wearing a knee-length nightshirt, his hair and face washed clean. The light flickers off of his metal piercings and makes long shadows of his tattoos.

Blaine swallows thickly. Elliott is so handsome, and the sweet look on his face makes Blaine's heart turn in his chest.

"Is Kurt alright?" he asks.

"Kurt's fine." Elliott sits on the side of his bed, and puts the lamp down on his bedside table. "Lacy was a doll, wasn't she?"

"She was," Blaine says, nodding. "Do you—do you think she'd make a good apprentice?"

"Mm, possibly. We'll see."

Blaine's pulse throbs painfully against his throat. Once he's a journeyman, they'll need him in a much less hands-on way. It's funny that becoming more of an equal might actually put more distance between Kurt and Elliott and himself than simply remaining an apprentice. Now, he's a third wheel but he takes care of them—then, he would just be a third wheel.

Elliott lies down beside him, keeping a small distance between their bodies, but he puts one hand on Blaine's chest, splaying it across his heart.

"You're our very best friend," Elliott says, his voice soft. "You know that, right?"

Blaine flushes. He guesses he is. "Y-yes."

"You're not just an apprentice," Elliott says. "You never were, Blaine. Sometimes I think you take it so seriously that you forget how important you are to us."

He sighs, and puts a hand over Elliott's. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize." Elliott's fingers stroke his chest. "We should probably talk."

Blaine swallows heavily. "About?"

"Kurt told me that when we were in the country, you—you kissed him."

_Oh, no. Oh no._

"I'm—I'm so, so sorry Elliott, I didn't mean it to be—it was just a friendly—but it was, I know, I just—"

Elliott is smiling, and Blaine has no idea why. "I have to admit: I was a little jealous."

"Oh, god, I am so sorry. It will never happen again, I swear."

"Blaine," Elliott says, propping himself up on one elbow. "I was jealous because you didn't kiss me, too."

Blaine blinks. "What?"

Elliott reaches up and raps on the wall above the headboard. Blaine is now officially confused.

"Sweetheart," Elliott says, "come here." Elliott traces Blaine's cheek with two fingertips—Blaine's skin goes hot, and his already racing pulse skips a beat as Elliott leans in to kiss his jaw.

He wants this so badly, but—

"E-elliott," he moans, turning his cheek. "We can't, we—Kurt—"

"Is very much enjoying this view of his boys," Kurt says, from the doorway.

Blaine jolts, sitting up so fast that he almost knocks Elliott clean off of him. "Kurt!"

Kurt holds his nightshirt in both hands, adjusting it as he sits on Blaine's opposite side, and then slinks forward on his hands and knees until he's hovering over Blaine's thighs.

"I don't understand," he says, as Elliott resumes the position that he had been in before Kurt arrived. Blaine's mind is a wash of blind wanting under a layer of confusion, and when Kurt bends over him, takes his face in his hands, and kisses the bow of his upper lip, he whines.

"We thought waiting for you was what you wanted," Elliott whispers, kissing Blaine's temple. "But you've been so miserable lately..."

"...and we know that you've never...been with anyone," Kurt finishes, pressing kisses along the curve of Blaine's cheekbone as he lies there shivering, overwhelmed by their gentleness.

"Oh," Blaine moans. Their hands are everywhere, not invasive but present, brushing his arms, his chest, his belly, his neck, and his face. "Oh. Oh, please—"

"Yes? What do you want, love?" Kurt asks, nuzzling into the curve of his throat. 

Blaine reaches for them, one hand on Elliott's muscled shoulder the other sinking into Kurt's hair. "Please, kiss me. Touch me, please, both of you, please, I want—want that." And then he stiffens, when they both move in—they're so close and so different and so perfect—because it's a lot. He sits up to give himself breathing room, and puts a hand on their chests to hold them in place. "But—but I—" He looks at them in turn, reaching up to cup their faces.

It's only been half a year, but they are so precious to him that he can't imagine life without them, and if this ruins what they already have...

"I don't just want this," he says, as they wait patiently. "I don't want just—sex."

Kurt and Elliott exchange a glance, and then Kurt kisses the side of Blaine's hand. "Did you think that we just wanted a third in bed for the novelty?"

"Been there, done that," Elliott says, smiling. "Honey, we're not just here for sex."

"We are crazy about you," Kurt murmurs, suckling damp kisses from Blaine's fluttering pulse point to the edge of his nightshirt. "So very crazy about you."

Elliott takes the other side of his neck, and it's all that he can do to stay upright—it's almost too much—they're so big and strong and everywhere, and oh, god, he wants to drown in them.

"I love you," he babbles, clutching them as they sink down to the mattress together, all three of them, as their hands stroke his chest and belly and their mouths move over his skin. "I love you both—I love you so much, please. Please, please, I want to be with you—"

Kurt takes Blaine's right arm and pins it above his head and off to his side, just to make room. "You're already with us." 

Elliott nips at his earlobe. "How many times did you come with us? Listening to us?"

"Oh, oh, god, I'm sor—"

"No," Kurt says, kissing him to interrupt him. "No, it's okay. We knew. We—were loud, sometimes, just for you."

"We thought you might find it encouraging," Elliott says, grinning as he sucks at the curve of Blaine's flushed ear. 

"God, every time," Kurt whimpers, grabbing Elliot by the back of the neck and kissing him, open-mouthed and wet and right in front of Blaine's eyes, "every time, could hear your hand on your cock, could hear you panting, your fingers inside of yourself, you were trying so hard to be quiet—oh, fuck, came so hard, imagining the way that it must have looked."

They kneel up and over him, scrabbling for each other, kissing and gripping each other's hair, necks, and shoulders, and Blaine just lies there, tenting his nightshirt, ruining it with wet spots, his eyes devouring the picture that they present together. He could come just watching them touch and kiss, and when Elliott begins undoing the ties on Kurt's nightshirt he actually moans aloud, squirming between and beneath them.

"Don't stop," he says, sitting up on his elbows. "I want to see. Please, just—"

Elliott inches the nightshirt up Kurt's body, and the sight is enough to make Blaine's cock throb and go completely vertical. Kurt's long, lean body is revealed by inches—his thighs, his ass, his waist, his chest, arms, and shoulders, and finally the shirt gone, his hair mused by the removal, and when Elliott cups the back of his neck and drags him into a kiss his body bends, revealing every smooth dip and muscled curve.

Blaine's cockhead weeps droplets of fluid as Kurt returns the favor, and Elliott's tanned, tattooed body is revealed in much the same way, his piercings sparkling in the lamplight. They are both as hard as stone, their cocks bobbing at each other like compasses seeking North—all that's left on their bodies are the leather cuffs that they wear with their initials, announcing their bond in the only way that they can.

"I can't wait," Kurt breathes, breaking the kiss. He grabs Elliott's hand and wraps it around his cock. "God, it's been too long, I can't wait."

"Is this okay?" Elliott asks Blaine, as his fist squeezes up and down Kurt's cock. "Do you want to see Kurt come for you right now?"

"Yes, yes, please," Blaine pants, his hips churning circles against the bed.

Kurt's hand wraps Elliott's cock in return, but his grip is lazy where Elliott's is purposeful. Blaine can't take his eyes off of the sight of that hand jacking Kurt's long, fat, pink cock. It only takes a few minutes for Kurt to begin to shake on his knees. His cheek is pillowed on Elliott's shoulder, and Blaine watches every little tick of his jaw and cheek muscles as he gets closer. His muscular thighs and ass flinch as his hips snap, pushing his cock in and out of Elliott's fist.

His eyes flutter open suddenly, and his ass trembles as he stops. "I'm going to come," he says, breathless, and Blaine's eyes widen as he does, pulsing white ropes all over Elliott's hand and nightshirt. A few jolts fall down onto his own nightshirt, and his mouth floods with saliva. 

He wants to taste it.

Elliott's cock is still rock hard in Kurt's slack grip, and Blaine sits up, drowning in the smell of them, in the warmth radiating off of their skin. They're all hard planes and rippling muscle, and he has no idea where to start but everywhere.

"Can you do that to him? Can you—can you show me how you do it, and make him—make him come, into my mouth?" he asks, his face burning.

Kurt walks on his knees over Blaine's legs, and edges up halfway behind Elliott, holding his cock from around his waist and turning him more toward Blaine's parted lips.

"Shit," Elliott hisses, reaching down to card his fingers through Blaine's curls. The tip of his cock grazes Blaine's swollen, parted lips, smearing them with pre-come. "Fuck, honey, is that what you want? Want to taste my come?"

"Please," he begs, fumbling as he wraps his lips around the head of Elliott's cock, as he licks, and licks, as Kurt's hand moves up and down the shaft, pushing it into his mouth. It's incredible—silk over steel, musky and salty and tangy, and it makes his body twinge and his cock ache. 

"You don't have to—"

He moans, taking it deeper into his mouth, deep enough to feel Kurt's hand against his lips, moving opposite his bobbing, between them not leaving an inch of Elliott's cock untouched. His muscled body flexes as he moves between them, his head falling back onto Kurt's shoulder.

"God, look at him," Kurt whispers, stroking Elliott faster. "Mouth was made to take cock, so gorgeous, so perfect—that's it, sweetheart. Watch your teeth, and suck him. Suck him nice and slow. Want every drop, don't you? Want to fill your mouth up with it, so good, so good for us."

Elliott gently holds the back of Blaine's head and begins thrusting. His chest and belly are heaving, and his face is screwed up in pleasure. "There we go," he breathes, fucking Blaine's mouth. "There we go, now you're relaxed for me, that's it, ungh, close, honey, so close—still want it? Still want me to come in your mouth?"

Blaine whines desperately, relaxing his mouth and throat to let Elliott in deeper. It's somewhat uncomfortable, and he can't breathe, but that doesn't matter—it's so exciting that he would endure anything to finish it, to get what he wants.

He reaches up to grasp Elliott's hip before it happens, holding him still so that he can swallow without gagging, but then Kurt tugs Elliott back at the last second.

"Open up," he says, "want to see, just show us your tongue, mm, come, love, come on, come."

Elliott gasps as Kurt jerks him through it, as he spurts white and thick, painting Blaine's tongue and lips and chin. As soon as he's done, Blaine closes his mouth and swallows, thrilling at the sharp taste and at the excess dripping down his chin. Kurt bends down to lick the remains off, and ends with a wet, tangy kiss to Blaine's lips. He's grinning and filthy and Blaine wants to devour him, so he does, grasping Kurt's thick hair and sucking kiss after tongue-filled kiss from his mouth, their chins sticking together with Elliott's mess.

Kurt crouches over him and presses him flat on the bed, walking his nightshirt up his body.

"Wanted you for so long," Kurt groans, rucking the cloth up around his chest. "Let us take care of you? Let us make you feel good."

What follows is a blur of Kurt and Elliott taking turns kissing him—everywhere. Their mouths and tongues and teeth touch every inch of him, from his forehead to his belly, like two mountain cats moving in measured precision, until all that's left untouched is Blaine's blood-flushed and straining cock, painting their cheeks and chins as they pointedly avoid it. He's going to come the second that they touch it, and he knows that they know that. 

Elliott sucks a bruise into his hip. "Do you want something inside when you come?"

They already know him so well, and this is only the first time.

"P-please," he whines, bending his knees and lifting his ass up. He's already so relaxed that one spit-soaked finger slides in with almost no fuss, Elliott twisting his wrist to make Blaine feel it. He groans, and then Kurt is there, licking at the tip of his cock like a kitten, until he's gasping and thrusting up. "Please!"

It takes one deep thrust of Elliott's finger, the weight of his hand and forearm behind it, and one sudden, wet swallow of Kurt's mouth, taking Blaine's cock to the back of his throat, for Blaine to come crying out, his ass off of the bed and his back bowed. It feels like it goes on forever, and when it's left him he lies there panting, his eyes screwed shut and his body trembling. 

When Elliott moves to let go, he whines and reaches down. "No, please, stay, it feels so good."

So they stay, Elliott shallowly stroking the inside of his ass while Kurt kisses and licks his soft cock clean, from the wilted head to the deflated sac. They talk to each other, exchanging kisses over Blaine's body, and Blaine watches them, melting into the bed with satisfaction.

When he begins to tremble, naked in the cool air, they climb back up the bed with blankets in hand, and curl up on either side of Blaine. He sighs, tucks himself between them like a puppy between two heat sources, and closes his eyes, contentment rolling through him in waves.

Kurt laces one hand with his below the blankets. "Okay?"

Blaine breathes out. "Perfect."

Elliott kisses his naked chest, and puts an arm around his waist. "You are. You are perfect."

 

*

 

At first, Blaine isn't sure where the boundaries are. 

Kurt and Elliott say "if it makes you uncomfortable, it doesn't happen". But what is the reality of the situation? Will they be intimate apart? Is he allowed to hold hands with either of them, kiss either of them, take either of them to bed without concern about the other? He wants that—he wants them together and he wants them apart, and he wonders if that makes him greedy. He wonders if they'll mind, if that's something that they don't want.

One evening after a show, Elliott stays behind to do some negotiation with a business contact who is hosting their next few shows in the area. This leaves Kurt and Blaine alone for bath time, and it quickly devolves into a splash fight, which ends with Blaine snapping Kurt with a towel and them chasing each other around the room until Blaine trips Kurt up and sends him sprawling onto his back on the bed, giggling and flushed.

Blaine stumbles over the edge of a rug and falls to his knees between Kurt's dangling legs, bracing himself on Kurt's bath-wet skin as he lands.

"I win," Kurt pronounces, panting, his arms flung out.

"How do you win?" Blaine asks. "You fell first!"

"I win because I have you right where I want you," he says, grinning, lifting his heels to the edge of the bed to expose—well, everything, to Blaine's eye.

Blaine blushes hot at Kurt staring down at him from between his bent legs, his lips bitten inward and a devious look on his face. He holds Blaine's gaze for a moment, and then rolls over in a slow, deliberate way—he's all legs and arms and wide, wide shoulders and a lean chest tapering into a tiny waist—presenting Blaine with his ass and back the same way that he'd presented his front. He looks at Blaine over his shoulder, still biting his lip, still flushed.

Blaine can't help but flatten his hands on Kurt's calves. He strokes lightly, over hair and the backs of his knees, along the thick, strong muscle at the back of his thighs.

"God, you're beautiful," he says, thumbing over Kurt's cheeks and into the dip of his lower back.

"Mm, you know what I want?" Kurt asks, inching his thighs apart. His cheeks darken further.

Blaine's pulse slams against his throat. He can't stop staring.

"I want you to lick me," Kurt says, his pert, round ass lifting just a fraction of an inch off of the bed. "I'm as clean as a whistle, and your lips are begging for indulgence."

Blaine bends his head to kiss the rise of one plump cheek. He thinks about the times when he'd gotten a glimpse of Kurt on his hands and knees, when he'd heard Kurt whining, demanding, begging for Elliott's fingers or tongue or cock, and god, he wants that, too. He wants to know that with Kurt, and perhaps this is one of those things that might be better to do one on one; he wants to focus on Kurt, to learn this the way that Kurt wants him to learn it. 

He nuzzles into the cheek beneath his lips and breathes deeply through his nose as Kurt stretches his lovely arms up the bed and bends his back.

"Come on, sweetheart," he says, spreading his legs. "Want your tongue inside of me."

"You smell so good," Blaine replies, biting a line down the cheek, leaving the marks of his teeth behind as he goes. 

Kurt's ass is glorious, and below it the flushed delicacy of his balls and sac, and his still-soft cock lying squashed below them, spread out like a buffet. Blaine spreads him open with his thumbs, revealing his pale skin, hued with pinks and browns, and the wink of his pucker, which flinches when the air hits it. Kurt lifts up to adjust his cock on the bed, and when he comes back down Blaine is there, holding his cheeks apart and squeezing them until the flesh goes even whiter between his fingers. His mouth is there before Kurt finishes the decent, mouthing at the skin between his hole and balls.

"Oh, yes," Kurt moans.

"Skin's so hot already," Blaine says, nibbling his way up Kurt's crack. "How does it feel? Tell me."

"Like you're kissing me on the inside already," Kurt says, his head falling down between his arms. "Like my whole body's connected to that spot. Feels so good. Fuck, feels so good."

He kisses, open-mouthed, over Kurt's hole and past it, up and down over it a dozen times, letting the salty clean flavor dissolve on his tongue, and watching as Kurt's balls fill and his cock hardens below. When he finally stops over Kurt's hole, Kurt reaches back and tangles one hand in Blaine's hair and grinds his ass back against Blaine's face.

"Right there," he groans, rolling his hips. "Oh, god, yes, right there, lick it. Lick it and press into me, oh, god, Blaine—"

It's so easy, so easy to part his lips and go at Kurt's hole like a mouth, lapping and suckling until it softens and slackens, and then he pushes his tongue inside and works his jaw back and forth, filling Kurt up. Kurt reaches beneath himself to stroke his own cock to the rhythm of Blaine's tongue, and the dual motion excites Blaine so much that he almost stops.

He presses in and then draws out to kiss and lick Kurt's rim, over and over again, once or twice even going lower to take his balls into his mouth, one and then the other, tripping his tongue across the crinkly, hairy flesh until Kurt is wailing and rocking back into him.

When Kurt gets close, he stops Blaine and gasps out, "Would you like to fuck me?" Kurt's hole—so pink, so wet, so needy, gapes at him like an invitation, and his cock jumps against his belly, leaving wet smears in the thick hair between his navel and groin.

"Can we? Is that okay?" he asks, rising to his feet as Kurt inches back to the bottom of the bed, his bare feet dangling over the edge.

"More than okay," Kurt replies, arching his back. "There's lotion on the table." Blaine retrieves it, his hands and knees shaking, and lets Kurt have it when he returns. Kurt shows him how much to use, and says, "Don't rub it in too much. It absorbs quickly enough on its own."

"I want—I want to see your face, can we—"

Kurt rolls over onto his back, and then with careful deliberation lifts his legs, putting his heels on Blaine's shoulders. He smiles, running his hands up and down Blaine's chest. 

"Oh, how pretty you look right there."

Blaine smiles, kissing the inside of Kurt's calf. Kurt is hard against his belly, and even from this angle Blaine can see how spread, how stretched his ass is. He reaches in between them and touches Blaine's cock, tugging it straight and getting it fully stiff in his lotion-slick fist. 

"I'm more than ready," he says, guiding it between his ass cheeks, "just push in slow, make sure it feels easy—if it doesn't, readjust." He stares up at Blaine, his blue-green-gray eyes shimmering. "You can watch your cock slide into me if you want. Watch it split me in half, know you want to."

"Kurt," Blaine moans, holding the base of his cock as it settles into Kurt's rim, catching on his hole. 

"Go ahead. Go ahead, it feels so good, love, you can go inside." He lifts up into Blaine's angle, his eyelids dropping as Blaine puts his weight behind it and sinks in. "Oh, oh, ah—ah, ungh, just—that's it."

Blaine kisses Kurt's ankle as he bottoms out. It's too much—he knows that already. It feels like a clamp around his cock, and he knows that if he relaxed he could let go within seconds. So he stays there, his knees braced against the bed's edge, and tries not to come.

Kurt knows. He laughs, not unkindly, and strokes Blaine's arms and chest and nipples and collarbone, trying to calm him. He shifts around, making his ass relax around Blaine.

"Feel good?"

"I'm—going to need practice to withstand this."

Kurt grins, lifting his ass and then letting it fall again. "I've been told it's pretty special, yes. Mm, going to make me fuck myself on your cock? Do all the work?"

"N-no," Blaine gasps, sliding out, and then pushing back in. "No, but—oh, god, I'm so close already. I'm sorry."

"Breathe. It's okay."

"Shift back a little?" He climbs onto the bed, letting Kurt's legs circle his torso, and then bending over him to kiss him while he's still full. Their mouths meet and part, and Kurt tilts his head to deepen the kiss. Blaine likes this, likes being close, likes feeling Kurt's breathing and staring into his beautiful eyes. He begins to move, then, more confidently, Kurt's arms around his shoulders.

"You feel so good," Kurt says, kissing down his jaw. "So many times—Elliott teased me. Slid out of me and asked me how much I'd like it if you took turns, if he let you push in after he pulled out, if you swapped—teasing me, dipping inside of me until neither of you could take it anymore."

"Oh, oh god, Kurt—"

"I want you to come in me," Kurt gasps, jerking his own cock as Blaine moves on top of him. "Please, please, give me that." Kurt is twined around him now, not letting him sit up or back, kissing his slack mouth in an almost demanding fashion.

Blaine comes buried deep inside of him. It's incredible, unlike any orgasm that he's ever been able to give himself, and when it's over, Kurt clutches his sweaty shoulders, and then rolls them onto their sides. They hold each other until the dampness on their skin goes cool and Kurt is nuzzling into his shoulder like a satisfied cat.

"Would you draw us another bath?" he asks, smiling into Blaine's naked skin.

"I had a feeling that was coming," Blaine answers.

 

*

 

They sleep together, all three of them, half of the time. 

It's a compromise, because none of them are sure if they're ready for constant three-way company, and once sleeping together becomes a habit, Blaine realizes that even he—who craves intimacy constantly—needs one or two nights a week to himself. 

One evening, Kurt is passed out from too much wine, and Blaine and Elliott end up amusing themselves in the very same bed while he snores.

"He'll deny that if you try to accuse him of it later," Elliott says, dragging Blaine on top of him in the tiny bed.

Blaine laughs. "Even his snoring has sort of a melody to it, can you hear?"

"Oh, my god," Elliott giggles, trying to be quiet. "No, no, no."

"It does!"

"You are the sweetest thing," Elliott declares, and kisses him quiet. 

And then kisses him noisy again.

"D-do you think he'd mind if we..."

Elliott is biting softly down the side of his neck, and rucking his nightshirt up around his hips. "Mm, mind what?"

With Elliott, Blaine finds himself even less articulate than with Kurt. Especially when Elliott touches him like this, bold and firm and confident, squeezing his hips and ass and waist, bending him close and leaving marks all over his neck. They're grinding through through clothes, now, casually hard, and Blaine forgets that Elliott had even asked a question. It's too warm in the small room, and there's not enough room on the bed—Kurt is practically on top of them, even like this—and Elliott is so good with his teeth and tongue that Blaine can't keep up.

Elliott's hands won't stop kneading and spreading his ass, and it's been so long since—god, Blaine can't even remember the last time that he was alone, the last time that he had paid attention to that part of his body, and it just hasn't happened yet with Kurt or Kurt and Elliott. 

"I think I have a feeling about what you'd like," Blaine confesses, when he comes up for air.

"What gave it away?" Elliott asks, gently swatting Blaine's up-turned, fat ass cheek.

Giggling, Blaine reaches for the lotion on the bedside table. He's no stranger to this part of himself, and he isn't afraid—though it will certainly be a new experience. Elliott's slippery fingers find him, hot and already twitching, and the lotion is cool for just a moment before it goes warm. Blaine breathes out in pleasure, dragging his ass along Elliott's fingers.

"Been a while," he says, as Elliott goes at his exposed neck with little nips of his teeth. 

"Eager boy," Elliott says, rubbing everywhere—along his crack, over his balls, across his cheeks—until he's a twisting mess, breathing heavily and trying to clamp up every time that those fingertips graze his hole. "Will you ride me?"

"Oh, god, yes," Blaine moans, reaching back to steady Elliott's throbbing cock between his cheeks. They're so prominent that he could probably hold it there without the help of his hand, but he wants to feel it, too.

It's a lot. When he takes his time, he usually works up to at least three fingers, but Elliott is thick, and the full length of him in combination with his girth is nothing like the easy give of fingers. But being on top is nice, and lets Blaine control the depth, and he does, easing himself down onto Elliott's cock with careful little hitches of his hips. Elliott soothes him through it, stroking his legs and ass and back, praising him with every inch that he takes inside.

More lotion, and he lifts up, gasping, digging his fingers into Elliott's shoulders. Sliding out feels different than sliding in, and it's so much more with a cock, pulling at his insides and making him feel strange.

"Oh," he whines, sitting down again, "oh, god, you're so big." He inhales when Elliott moves beneath him, rolling his hips up.

"You're doing so well, sweetheart, just keep doing that, and relax for me, okay?"

It's too much. It feels—like he's being split apart, and something about that makes him feel vulnerable. He whines, pressing his face into Elliott's shoulder. Elliott cups his cheek and nudges him back to kiss him.

"Shh, it's okay, I'm here, hey. Look at me."

Blaine's eyes snap open. Elliott's eyes lock on his, and Blaine feels himself breathe again. He rolls his hips, and it's better, smoother, wetter. Elliott reaches between them and grips his cock.

"I want to make you come around me. Alright?"

"Oh, please," Blaine whimpers, swaying up and down, back and forth, on Elliott's cock.

The motion is more than enough to drive his erection through Elliott's hand, and the fact that they're sharing the rhythm makes it something bigger, something better. The bed is creaking, and Kurt is just beside them, and Blaine is getting pumped so full, over and over, and his cock is jumping in Elliott's hand, and god, he loves Elliott, loves him so much, loves loves loves until it's like a physical thing between them, just as present as their bodies.

Elliott moans, gripping Blaine's ass in his free hand, squeezing it, tugging it. "That's it. Let it feel good. Let it go where you need it, love."

He's so open now, so relaxed, that it's almost too easy to take it to the root, to rise and fall and then to bounce, dragging the thick intrusion against his insides.

Elliott makes him go still, leverages his weight on his heels to push up into Blaine and stay there as his fist blurs around Blaine's cock.

"Want to come? Ready?"

"Please, please, please—don't stop, so close, oh, god, your _cock_ —"

Elliott kisses his lips, his chin, his jaw. His hips snap suddenly, fucking up into Blaine, fast and short. Blaine cries out, clenching up—that's all it takes, and he comes in Elliott's hand, splattering messily between them, his head thrown back, his mouth parting around a series of sharp gasps.

"Oh," he moans, bouncing in Elliott's lap, "oh, oh, oh, god, oh god—f-fuck—fuck me, keep—" 

Panting, Elliott groans, "Can I—can I—inside?"

Blaine whines, locking an elbow around the back of Elliott's neck and hauling himself up higher. "Do it. Do it, do it, come, come in me, fill me up."

Elliott groans, bites down on Blaine's shoulder and comes, slamming up into him roughly. Their bodies collide, arms and legs and chests sweat-sticky and hot, and Blaine wraps himself around Elliott, shaking through the aftershocks. The way that Elliott is so tender after, touches him like he's made of glass, like Elliott is in awe of him, always makes him feel so taken care of. 

It's only then that he realizes that Kurt is awake, and has been watching—his cock is soft in his hand, and his belly is messy with come.

"Mm," he says, sprawling out. "That was better than the show that we put on tonight, I think."

Elliott laughs, and Blaine reaches for a rag to clean Kurt off with a fond smile on his lips.

 

*

 

The sex is spectacular. That much is clear from the start. 

But the best part of it, for Blaine, is feeling the connection between the three of them sing with completion—the tug that he's always felt toward them is, all of the sudden, wonderfully indulged. Their friendship only grows stronger once they become lovers.

They talk about it when they have time, in between bouts of performance excitement and tiredness and travel, about how neither Kurt nor Elliott have a jealous bone in their bodies, about how easy love and romance has always been between them, about the lovers who they've taken on the road, none of which have ever made them question their desire to be together. They have always been completely content with one another, but as soon as they had met Blaine they'd known—as surely as they had when they had met each other—that he was meant to be by their side in much the same way. They'd intentionally waited until Blaine was old enough to leave home, old enough to maybe understand and want love, to come back for him.

It's a whirlwind of conversations just like this one, naked sleeping piles, costume sharing, and post-show exuberance for months on end. Blaine has never been happier.

They don't always have the time to find three drawn-out orgasms at the end of the day, so they come up with different ways of pleasuring each other. Blaine loves surprising them. Sometimes he'll drop to his knees the moment that they're alone, take them out of their pants and suck them right there on the floor in turn, his mouth on one and his hand on the other, until they come for him, painting his mouth and cheeks and eyelashes at the same time. Sometimes he'll sprawl out and let them have him, Kurt's mouth around his cock and Elliott's tongue or fingers or cock inside of his ass, before watching lazily as they jerk themselves to completion all over his naked body.

Kurt's favorite thing is be on his hands and knees with one of their cocks in his ass and one in his mouth, and Blaine and Elliott are all too eager to satisfy him, and have no real preference for who is where. When they have the time, Blaine and Kurt enjoy ganging up on Elliott, pressing him down into the bed and taking turns sucking his cock until he's held off time after time and begins to writhe and beg for release. Blaine loves sucking Elliott with Kurt, loves kissing Kurt around Elliott's throbbing cock, loves feeling Elliott gush all over their parted mouths as they fight over who gets to swallow how much, with Elliott's hands in their hair.

When it happens in the middle of the night or early morning, it's almost a blur—there are so many hands and legs and arms and cocks and Blaine sometimes just keeps his eyes closed and touches them and is touched in return, cocks fitted into his mouth or hand or ass with grunts and croons, and he doesn't even care who it is, as long as it's them, always them, forever them, making his body light up like a candle in the darkness.

So sweet, after, lips grazing his flesh and fingertips tracing tracks through sweat and come, noses nuzzling into his curls and the back of his neck, the crook of his groin, between his legs and under his arms and over his back or belly, so much affection and connection that he feels glutted on it. They are just as enamored of lingering in these moments as he is, hours of nothing more than rubbing and kissing and touching, until orgasms are nothing more than an explosive afterthought.

Even through the difficult traveling jogs, even when the show goes badly, or they run out of funds, they manage to keep each other going. 

They are good for each other—a triad maintaining a perfect balance, free of limitation.

 

*

 

Blaine isn't sure why it still worries him when they reach the end of the show season and travel on to the town where their master lives. He knows that he'll be offered a promotion to journeyman status—but what if their master isn't willing to make them a trio? What if she doesn't want Blaine performing with Kurt and Elliott? As an apprentice, he serves more than one purpose—but as a journeyman, he will be taken on his merits solely as a performer. What if he isn't good enough? 

They are obligated to wait a few days for their master to return home, and in that time they are given a lovely room in her house, which is also blessedly empty. There are luxurious baths and a huge bed, and Blaine allows himself to be distracted by this wealth. They change into gorgeous clothes and eat huge meals. Kurt spends half of the first day in the baths, and when Blaine tries to go looking for him, Elliott drags him in the opposite direction.

"Trust me, he'll get cranky if you interrupt. We only get this twice a year. We take turns. It's worth it."

It is. The baths are incredible, and when Blaine gets his turn he isn't surprised why they insist on it. By the time that he finishes scrubbing and scraping, waxing and sculpting, he feels cleaner and better than he ever has in his life.

He finds Kurt and Elliott sprawled naked and laughing in the bed in their rooms. There's no concern here about being observed—the master's house staff is fully aware of the details of their lives and are paid well to remain discreet—and they are as relaxed as he has ever seen them, all laced fingers and soft kisses. When he joins them, there's enough room on the bed for all three of them to spread out.

He falls asleep without meaning to—the bed is so comfortable, and their voices are like a lullaby, soothing him right into unconsciousness. When he wakes up he's properly arranged on the bed, a pillow under his cheek and Elliott in between he and Kurt on the bed. He rolls over, murmurs a sleepy, content noise, and throws an arm and a leg over Elliott's glorious, naked body. He squints in the dimness to see Kurt on Elliott's other side, also naked but with a blanket over his hips. His profile is as striking as a marble statue's, turned into the crook of Elliott's arm.

Blaine feels a sense of belonging so keen that it almost hurts. There is nowhere else in the world he would rather be.

The afternoon before their supper with their master, they go to the baths together. There's a hot water bath the size of a small swimming pool, and after they bathe Blaine slinks into Kurt's lap like a water snake, and kisses him until they're both stiffening in the steamy air. Elliott paddles up behind him, and begins massaging his neck and shoulders.

He groans, tearing his mouth from Kurt's. "Oh, that feels so good."

Elliott's tattooed, muscled forearms wrap around his shoulders. "Don't let me interrupt. Go on."

Kurt goes back to kissing him, spearing his mouth with his tongue while lazily pumping his cock. Elliott rubs knots from Blaine's shoulders and back, then lifts Blaine out of the water just enough to deposit him in Kurt's lap.

Blaine feels a slickness, and looks behind him to see that Elliott has a bottle of oil in his hand. He smiles wickedly, and kisses Blaine's surprised, slack mouth. "Bend over for me, beautiful?" he asks, trailing a slippery hand up and down the curve of Blaine's ass.

"Oh, yes," he breathes, holding onto Kurt, who tips him forward. 

Kurt strokes wet curls off of his face, cupping his neck and kissing him sweet and slow and distracting as Elliott pushes into him—no fingers, no fuss, just a lot of oil and heavy breathing and Elliott's strong hands spreading him open. When Elliott hesitates, unsure about the lack of preparation, Blaine whines and grabs his hips from behind and pulls him in. 

"Don't stop, I want it like this," Blaine whimpers, as Elliott's fat cock pushes inside. "Please, it feels—so much, just, keep going."

He can't stop thinking about tonight. About the dinner with their master. About possibly being promoted, and then being separated from the men he loves—and he can't deal with that. He needs them, now, as close as he can have them, needs to burn them into his skin. If he's going to lose them tonight, he'll have them now. He'll be greedy.

The oil, out of the water, at least, lasts longer and is so much better than the lotion that they usually use—within minutes Elliott is smoothly fucking him, hands on his hips, his fat cheeks bouncing off of Elliott's muscular hips with every thrust. Kurt stops stroking him and takes the oil jar, coating his own fingers. Blaine thinks that he intends to go back to touching his cock, but Kurt instead sits forward on the lip of the pool and puts his hand between his own legs.

Blaine's eyes widen.

Kurt kisses him, hot and quick. "Fuck me while he fucks you?"

"Oh, my god," Blaine whines, staring down at Kurt's shining finger spearing below his pink, swollen balls, rocking in and out of his hole. “Oh, yes, turn—or lie down, or—let me—"

Kurt turns and kneels on the edge of the pool, inching down so that Blaine and Elliott, standing on the second and third step respectively, can reach. Blaine slides into Kurt's slick, gaping pucker easily, with a soft grunt, putting his hands on Kurt's shoulders and hitching up so that he can make Kurt feel it. Kurt's back bends, and he whimpers, and the noise bounces off of the tile and reverberates around them.

Being in the middle is incredible—his cock is engulfed by pressure, and his ass is full, and he's sort of bouncing back and forth between them, driven by the rhythm of their bodies. He digs his knees into the ribbed tile on the step beneath him and holds on, the wet staccato slap as they come together the only noise besides their heavy breathing. Elliott covers his back and kisses his curls, going faster, drowning him in the noise of his own hole yielding wetly.

"I—I'm going to c-come," he whines, rocking Kurt on his hands and knees over the lip of the pool. "Kurt—Kurt—" Kurt clenches up around him, and he comes helplessly, his hips snapping and his eyes rolling back. "Ah, god, I'm slipping, could you—move up, just—"

Kurt clambers away from the edge and rolls onto his back and Blaine follows, drawing Elliott up to the top step. He kneels over Kurt's hips as Elliott slots back into him with a groan. He's so open—it almost feels like nothing, once Elliott is back inside. Kurt bucks beneath him, whining, and he realizes that Kurt is still hard.

He blinks, and then puts a hand back on Elliott's hip. "I want both. Can we do that?"

"What?" Elliott asks, his voice barely a rasp.

"Both of you inside at the same time," he says, reaching down to guide Kurt's cock behind his balls.

"Oh," Kurt whimpers, grasping Blaine's waist. "Oh, oh—that's—"

"Do you feel—okay, for that?" Elliott asks, his hips stuttering. 

"Please," Blaine says, nudging Kurt's cockhead against the dip of his rim. 

Elliott pulls out halfway to allow him room, and Blaine sits down onto Kurt's cock. Elliott inches in beside him, glacially slow, judging the stretch tiny shift by tiny shift. It's—a lot. It burns, and Blaine feels it from his ass to his ankles. He sweats and strains, whimpering as they begin to shift back and forth, gingerly rutting into his ass in rhythmic turn.

"I can feel—your cock inside of him, right alongside mine, oh," Kurt moans, his nails digging into Blaine's waist as he fucks up lazily.

It's quite the effort to keep it going without causing any discomfort, but Blaine loves every pulse-pounding second of it. He's full of them, full of them both at the same time, and he's never felt closer to them. When they come, almost at the same time, it's so messy that he's leaking before either of them pulls out of him, biting his lip as the come drips down his balls and thighs to pool on the lip of the tub, where his mess has been sluggishly dripping out of Kurt for a while already.

They slide back into the pool with a groan, grateful for the rushing water that sweeps the fluids away. He's aching and stretched and they're there, holding him and kissing him and wiping the oil and soreness away. He loops one arm around either of them, holding them close and sucking kisses from their mouths.

When the urgency has bled out, he slumps between them, allowing himself to be held up in the water, as their feet touch the bottom where his miss it by an inch or two at this depth. 

"Another wash, and we'll have to get ready for supper," Elliott says.

Kurt nods. "Not nervous, are you, Blaine?"

He bites his lip and shakes his head. He's not nervous—he's terrified of losing them. But that isn't what Kurt had asked, and it isn't something that Blaine wants to confess to. Not yet.

 

*

 

Their master is a young woman named Dani, with blue streaks in her hair and the most gorgeous clothes that Blaine has ever seen. He isn't sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this vibrant, excitable young woman who spends half of their introduction explaining the variety of drinks that she can have whipped up if they so desire.

“Well, what did you think she'd be like?” Kurt asks him, in between courses.

“Older? I don't know!” he answers.

She tells them—for Blaine's benefit—the story of how she had formed a successful performance troupe in her teens, had struck while the iron was hot and made ridiculous amounts of money which she has since invested in a variety of traveling performers, much to her and their benefit. She has had a strong vision for Kurt and Elliott as a duo since the beginning, but she likes what she's heard about the trio skits that they've added to the show since they recruited Blaine.

Still, she voices some skepticism. She has no trouble imagining it working in theory, but in reality Kurt and Elliott are easier to market and sell as a product, and she isn't willing to commit any changes—at least, not over dinner on the first night, she says, with a wink.

Blaine doesn't sleep much that night. He understands her logic—it's what he's been dreading, so it almost seems to fit—but Kurt and Elliott don't seem concerned, and he doesn't understand why.

Would they let him go as easily as they had taken him in?

He walks the house that night, until his body forces him toward sleep, and then he collapses beside Kurt, off to the edge of the bed, wanting space. Kurt murmurs and rolls over into him anyway, cuddling up and under his arm.

"Blaine," he whispers, half-asleep, burrowing his mouth into the space behind Blaine's ear.

"I love you," Blaine replies, barely above a whisper. Kurt is already asleep again, and doesn't respond.

The next couple of days Dani dresses them up and shows them off, dragging them to local shows and parties. It hurts, just a little, to see Kurt and Elliott's intimacy in public. They don't do anything overt, but they're always near each other, and because these people expect them to be a unit, a duo, they are, and for the first time in a long while Blaine feels like the third wheel again.

On the fourth day, over lunch, Dani offers him his journeyman status, and he's too worried to fully enjoy it. Kurt and Elliott are ecstatic. They take him upstairs, get him spectacularly drunk, and kiss him until all he can feel is tingling lips and the buzz of alcohol in his veins.

He is proud of himself. He is. It's a great accomplishment. This means that he'll have all sorts of opportunities handed down to him by Dani—he might even get a show of his own. Maybe she'll let him combine forces with Kurt and Elliott from time to time. But either way, she's now his boss, and if she doesn't like the idea of a trio, he may not have much time left with his—

His what? His men? His partners? His loves?

God, but does he love them, so very much. What would he do without them? What would life be like without them? They've been the center of his world since he was ten years old, and individually they are his best friends. They make him happy. They fit him. He's a better person because they are a part of him, and he likes to think that the reverse is equally true.

But is it? They've never promised him anything. They've never seemed to worry over this change that's happening to them, right here and now. They haven't asked him why he's been so changeable recently.

Do they care? Do they see?

 

*

 

The days rush past, and finally it's their last evening in Dani's home. 

She throws a lavish private party for all of her performers who are able to come, and Blaine has to admit that it's everything that he has ever dreamed of. A gathering of people for whom performance is their life, happy and mingling and free. Kurt and Elliott are allowed to hold hands and hug and kiss, and they even sneak Blaine in between them every now and then, and Blaine feels better than he has in days. They are making an obvious effort, and he appreciates it.

Near the stage where a band is playing music to entertain her guests, Dani corners him and pushes a drink into his hand.

"Blaine," she says, "you are not making nearly enough merry."

He smiles. "Sorry. I never could hold my liquor, so I try not to go too overboard at work parties."

"Oh, is that all you think of my lavish event?" she asks, obviously teasing.

He slides his arm through hers. "Forgive me. You are amazing. This is amazing. And Kurt and Elliott—they shine, don't they? This is the very definition of their element."

"Hm," she says, tilting her head. "I've seen them brighter."

This brings him up short. "Really?"

"Really," she says, kissing his cheek. "Enjoy the party."

He's not quite sure what to make of that.

After the party breaks up, Kurt finds him, hooks him by the waist and drags him upstairs to their room, where Elliott is waiting for them. They're both too drunk for anything more than kisses and caresses, but Blaine settles in between them, happy to be with them, happy to feel whole.

 

*

 

Dani has a theater in her house, complete with a stage and seating. Blaine is up and dressed before Kurt and Elliott the morning of their departure, and he goes there for some privacy. He walks the stage. He performs a monologue for the empty seats. He does some vocal runs. He sits on the lip of the stage and swings his feet and stares out into the dark, quiet space.

He's come so far. Why can't it be enough? Why does he need them so much?

He hears the noise of feet from backstage, and glances up just in time to see Kurt entering stage left and Elliott stage right, dressed for travel in their usual tight pants and colorful shirts. Something about the picture that they present seems off, but he can't put his finger on what it is. It's probably something simple—Dani had gifted them all with new wardrobes, after all.

He stands, smiling at them. They're alone, so he doesn't hesitate when Elliott cups the back of his head and tugs him up into a kiss. Kurt catches his chin as soon as he comes down off of his toes and kisses him identically.

"How was breakfast with Dani?" he asks, his voice unsteady.

This is it. She must have given them their out-of-season plans (typically sideshows and private parties, but they'll still be roaming far and wide, as busy as ever).

"She isn't ready to upgrade our show to trio material," Elliott says, carefully, holding Blaine's arms.

Blaine shudders, and looks down. He won't cry. He won't have an outburst.

"Where—where am I going, then?" he asks.

"That was our question," Kurt says. "In fact—that's always been our question."

Blaine swallows heavily, and reaches out for Elliott's hand. It squeezes around his comfortingly.

"Where do _you_ want to be, Blaine?" Elliott asks.

"On stage," he says, looking around the simple theater. "And with you two. Always."

"Always?" Kurt asks, smiling, his face soft and open. He takes Blaine's other hand.

"Always," Blaine whispers, holding onto them with sweaty but steely fingers.

"Do you mean that?" Elliott asks, toying with Blaine's fingers but looking directly into his eyes. "Do you really mean that? You have to mean it, sweetheart."

"I mean it," he says, drawing them in by their hands, drawing their arms around him. 

He buries himself between them, using the inch or two and the inch or three that Kurt and Elliott have on him respectively to lose himself in the bracket of their bodies. He breathes in their combined scent, shivering with emotion. 

They're his. And he's theirs. They belong together, not matter how odd the world might find it.

Even if they're separated...

"Dani won't let us rewrite the show, because she wants you to have your own parts, Blaine," Kurt says, right into the seashell curve of Blaine's ear. "She's not splitting us up."

Blaine's chest convulses. "Oh—oh."

"But we sort of figured that out early on," Elliott says, "even though we waited to be sure. We would never have wanted to get your hopes up."

He nods frantically, swallowing the noises that threaten to break in his throat, and clutching them tighter, closer, lower, until he's disappeared entirely between them, their hair in between his fingers. Relief rushes through him in waves, leaving him reeling and lightheaded.

Elliott gently puts both he and Kurt at arm's length, and it's only then that Blaine notices he's holding a box in his free hand.

"You haven't said anything," he says, raising his naked wrist alongside Kurt's.

"What?"

"No cuffs?"

"Oh," Blaine says, laughing. “Why no cuffs?" He smiles. "Are we too professional for cuffs now?"

"Well, that's why we had to ask first," Kurt says, taking the box from Elliott. "It would have been really embarrassing if we'd offered you one of these and you'd said no, don't you think?"

He opens the lid of the box. Inside are three brand new leather cuffs, freshly tooled, only instead of just Kurt and Elliott's initials on the inside, they have Blaine's, as well.

Blaine clutches the edge of the box, trying to make his mouth work, but then Elliott slides the middle cuff free of the box, taking Blaine's bare right wrist and stroking it lovingly before letting Kurt hold a portion of it, too. He looks at them, and the emotion in their eyes makes his chest ache. His eyes mist over, and he looks back down in time to watch Elliott unhook the cuff's buckle.

"When I offered one of these to Kurt, before he realized what I meant by it, he laughed, and said it wouldn't match half of his outfits," Elliott says, fondling the leather.

Kurt laughs, and Blaine laughs with him, ducking his face.

"I couldn't put a ring on his finger without questions being asked, but this—this I could do. We sacrifice a lot to live outside of the world, in so many ways, but with this—with our initials touching each other's skin all day, every day—we're with each other, no matter what."

Kurt takes the cuff in one hand, and Blaine's chin in the other. "He meant it when he asked, and I meant it when I answered, and now you have to mean it, too. So—will you? Will you be with us? Will you be a part of us, the three of us, equal and the same and for always?"

"Yes, yes, of course, you—I'm yours. I've always been yours," he says, trembling as they buckle the cuff around his wrist. He helps them buckle theirs, and they stand there in the dim theater, staring at the bands of black, side by side by side.

It's what he's always wanted—his men and the chance to make art, linked in a tangible way. 

A promise, in three directions.

They kiss—Elliott and Blaine, Elliott and Kurt, Kurt and Blaine, and then a silly attempt at one shared kiss that doesn't quite work and leaves them laughing and shaking their heads—and then Elliott takes his right hand and Kurt takes his left, and they turn toward the empty audience.

"Well, then," Elliott says, "on with the show."


End file.
